


blood sacrifice

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, F/M, Human/Vampire Relationship, Mild Gore, Non-Graphic Violence, Nothing explicit, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Vampires, i do swear a lot though, incest (previous)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: jaime & brienne meet a mythical creature while traveling together in the deepest, darkest, scariest woods that Westeros has to offer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 17 september - 
> 
> This story took forever to write, and not only because my left hand is still (still!) half-functioning.
> 
> I’m very unsure of it.

The grey mare turned up lame at daybreak; they tied the horses on a lead and continued on foot.

Midday, Jaime called for a halt, claiming sore feet. “Corns,” he said, sounding regretful. “I never had corns before.”

Brienne was not interested in imaginary complaints. “Only a wealthy man would complain of a little bit of walking.”

“Is wealth a sin? Come, good ser. You must be tired. Take off your sword and rest awhile.”

“You may do as you like with your own weapon. Mine stays on. It’s foolish to let down your guard.”

Jaime made a face. “Is everyone on Tarth as piously stubborn as you are? I don't think I've seen you truly relax in ... how long have we known each other?” 

“Are all Lannisters determined to make my life difficult?” she countered.

“Not all of us, no. That honor belongs to me.” And he smiled at her, taking away the sting.

Brienne shifted. “Your father ...”

“My father," said Jaime, stretching out his legs and looking smugly luxurious, “is perfectly aware that you're damn ... bloody-minded. He sent you here to keep me in line."

“He probably hopes you'll end up hating me.”

“Never.”

Jaime knew perfectly well that she went red and couldn’t look at him when he said things like that, which of course was exactly why he did it. Brienne cleared her throat and tried to ignore his terrible flirting. “Dinner would be welcome if you’re in the mood to start it. Since you’re determined to delay us.” She glanced into the forest. “I’ll be a moment.”

He shut his eyes, leaning back. “Go on. I’m just going to have a nap.”

She shook her head and went further on, out of sight of the little clearing.

The forest felt strange — _she_ felt strange — but the trees were empty of everyone except herself.

She took down her trousers and relieved herself, still listening for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. Nothing. Only quiet and emptiness and the prickling nerves along her arms. _It’s nothing, _she told herself. _You’re annoyed by Jaime, that’s all. Nothing new._

She finished and dressed and started back and saw the vampire.

There was no doubt, though she had never seen one before. He had the shape of a human man and the clothes and the skin color, everything was as it should be — and everything was hideously wrong. Fear sent a screaming drum-beat along her skin, matching her thumping heart, a sound he had to hear, she _knew_ he heard it, he heard it and laughed, she’d never been so frightened

and then he moved away —faster than light, faster than thought —

and Jaime crumpled to the ground.

He was moaning. He was unconscious.

Nearby lay the body of the lame horse, twitching, foaming.

Was it the shock? the venom? It didn’t matter. She dragged him to the tree — lay him out flat — and pushed the sleeve up away from his wrist, where blood was running over his fingers.

_Only flesh, _she thought, _it’s only a body, it’s only blood_ — because her empty stomach threatened to overturn, he had been chewed, torn open like he was meat. Only meat. Only her best friend. Only Jaime.

“Please,” he said to her: and there was nothing of recognition in his face. He was a sleepwalker. “Please don’t let him hurt me.”

Brienne felt sweat break out under her arms and on her forehead. Gods. He was dying, he was going to die. She could not let him die. “No one is going to hurt you. Lay still a moment.”

A number of thick, knobby roots rose up from the earth and spread concentric around it — that would do. “Lay still.”

“I’m so frightened,” he said to her, eyes open and whitely unseeing.

She bent down and kissed him, just a brush of lips.

Then she drew her sword and cut off his hand.

He was still unconscious when she tied him to her own horse and climbed on pillion. She spurred the creature cruelly — what else could she do?

Jaime’s head hit against her shoulder or breast with every step, and his wrist dripped blood on her leg. She’d tied off his arm at the elbow: was that enough? Should she do more? Had she done too much?

Jaime.

He was barely awake now and only for a moment, only long enough to complain. “Brienne,” he said. “Brienne, my hand hurts. I need a maester.”

“We’re going to find you a maester.”

“Not Pycelle,” he said; he shivered all over. “Not him.”

“No. Not him.”

The road was hot, the day was hot, the horse sweating and unsteady; she let it walk awhile.

Jaime smelled sharply of fear and pain. He lifted his head off from her and opened green eyes. Lucid. “I’m thirsty,” he said.

She couldn’t get to the waterskins, not tied like this. “Not much further.”

He shut his eyes.

Would he ever wake up if he fell asleep? She babbled. “Do you remember when we met? I was fourteen. Barely ever seen a city before. I thought Kings Landing was the most amazing thing. All the people, all the buildings and shops.” She hadn’t known to be disgusted or charmed and settled on a wary, uneasy watchfulness.

_Careful, _her father had said.

She said_: I can protect myself._

He said:_ Only if you know there’s a fight._

She hadn’t understood what he meant until she came to the city. Tarth was largely rural, its people and customs steeped in tradition — while Kings Landing changed daily, it seemed. Every street and neighborhood had its own microculture, and all of them were strange.

No one was stranger than the other children training to be knights. Brienne had expected — not respect, no — but common politeness.

Instead they laughed at her, and the swords-master did too. _Never seen a girl try for knighthood._

_Well, now you have,_ said Brienne. She was determined to be calm.

One of them openly sneered. _I don’t know which is more painful, wench — __the way your knees and elbows stick out when you try to hide — or the sight of your face._

She saw red. Demanded a spar.

_Alright_, said Jaime, tall and confident and beautiful at sixteen. _Better get it over with._

She’d knocked him down, then he knocked her down, then they fought til the master called a stop. They had lunch and small beer and made up the fight and that was it: they were Jaime-and-Brienne.

He was knighted and then she was, and she should have left then — when he joined the Kingsguard — when he told her the truth about himself and Cersei — she should have left a thousand times. Fled or fought him or fucked him.

But she stayed. Whatever he was or had done, he was Jaime. He was her friend. Irritating, charming, rude and beautiful.

He really would hate her now.

Afternoon trailed into evening, and they stopped awhile, helping Jaime down from the saddle. He drank a little and ate a little, not replying to any of the stupid commonplace things she said.

She ached for him. “We should start again.”

“I need to —“

“Fine,” said Brienne.

He went off a few steps to piss while she rearranged the saddlebags, thinking Ten miles more? Fifteen? Tonight. We can do it tonight. If the horse lasts. If he doesn’t fall out of the saddle. If I don’t fall asleep. If if if. They would return to Kings Landing, he would see a maester. He would be helped, he would be safe — saved.

She did not allow herself to think past that.

He came back and stared at her.

“Ready?” she said. “I’ll help you in.” And she reached for him.

He pushed her to the ground. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Jaime—”

“Don’t talk to me either.”

Silently she helped him on the saddle and went on herself, forward this time, and kicked the horse into a weary walk.

The moon was half risen when Jaime spoke. “You killed me,” he said, or maybe it was “You should have killed me”.

Brienne didn’t answer. He’d told her to be quiet, hadn’t he? _Don’t talk to me._ So she was quiet.

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

Step step step step they swayed.

“You’re supposed to help me. Protect me. You were supposed to be my _friend_.”

“I am your friend.”

He made a sound like a laugh and unlike a laugh. “You let someone attack me. Some _thing_.”

“I wasn’t even there.”

“You cut off my hand.”

“He bit you. The venom was already—”

“Is that going to fucking help? Is it going to save me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is this like greyscale — does it stop the disease?”

“_I don’t know_. I don’t know anything. I didn’t know what to do, you were bleeding and shaking and I had to do something because I could not stand there and let you die.” She heard the tremble in her own voice, remembered again Jaime saying _Don’t let him hurt me. _“I know I hurt you. I know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“When we’re back at Kings Landing,” he said, “I never want to see you again.”

She didn’t reply.

He rested against her then, falling silent, and Brienne again kicked the exhausted horse into a trot. She dared not move more slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -jaime’s rich-boy complaint about developing corns is freakin hilarious to me
> 
> -vampires exist in Westeros, but they’re more or less mythical.  
much like dragons, or a satisfying character arc in a beloved tv show. 
> 
> -i don’t know where they’re journeying or why. i’m sorry.
> 
> -as implied, Jaime & Cersei had all the sex & all the babies in this AU. it isn’t a current relationship, and it isn’t especially relevant, but if it bothers you i am sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has a friendly chat with the Small Council; Cersei tells most of the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the words of tumblr: here is an insurmountable amount of garbage. it disgusts me as well. 
> 
> i apologize in advance.

“Your grace.”

“Lady Brienne.”

It was _ser_: but Brienne didn’t correct the queen.

Neither did anyone else. They only stared, an immobile mass of accusation.

“You brought ser Jaime back to Kings Landing missing a hand. Would you like to explain that?”

(Stumbling through the great broad doors, her arm around his waist — _I need a maester. Hurry. Ser Jaime is hurt._

They took her from him and brought her food, water, wine: and as she was falling asleep over the meal, worn out from fear and grief, some guard spoke her name.

_The Council requests your presence,_ he said.)

“He was attacked, your grace. On the road.”

“And you cut off his hand to save him?” Scorn; disbelief.

“He was bit by a vampire,” said Brienne.

Small noises of disbelief.

Pycelle pursed his lips.

_A grey sunken cunt,_ Jaime had once called Pycelle — but she couldn’t think of that now, couldn’t think of Jaime as he had been, as he might never be again, or she would begin to scream and be unable to stop. She must be calm.

Tywin spoke. “A vampire. You know this for certain? You have seen one before?”

“No, my lord.”

“Of course she has not. This is a fantasy. They haven’t been seen in Westeros for a hundred years, and maybe there never were such things.”

“Let her speak,” said Tywin: and his daughter fell silent, seeming to retreat deeper into her voluminous sleeves.

_(Your father doesn’t like me, _she’d said to Jaime_._

Jaime snorted._ He doesn’t like anyone. What does it matter?_

What does it matter.)

Brienne spoke.

She told how they had traveled together as usual — separated briefly — “and when I returned, ser Jaime was in the middle of an attack.”

“By how many?”

“Only one.”

Cersei looked bored, or at the least, unimpressed. “You are a _knight_, lady Brienne. My brother knighted you himself. Are you truly telling us that you were unable to fight off a single man?”

“Not a man, your grace. A vampire.” Her voice was beginning to shake; she steadied it. “I wasn’t given the opportunity to fight for ser Jaime. As soon as I saw them, it — he left.”

“He simply left.”

“Yes.”

Pycelle spoke for the first time. “Why do you believe this attacker was not a normal man?”

“I cannot describe — I cannot explain how I knew. But there was no question.”

Cersei toyed with the stem of a wineglass. “I’m more interested in his behavior. He had Jaime there, and you. Why would he leave his prey?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t he attack you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You removed Jaime’s hand.” Tywin again.

“Yes, my lord. I did. I hoped to keep the venom from spreading.”

She made the mistake of looking up and caught Tyrion's odd, mismatched gaze: he was watching her, a steady curiosity in his eyes.

Pycelle. “Are you a maester, ser Brienne? or a healer?”

“No.”

“Are you studied in the arts of healing patients from vampire bites?”

“No.” Calm, she told herself. Calm calm _calm_.

“Then why did you do that? Why do anything?"

“I had to do something.”

“Your decision to do _‘something’_ left my son without his swordhand. He is a member of the Kingsguard. He's brother to the queen.”

Brienne didn’t answer.

Tywin said: “Will Jaime corroborate this ... account?”

“Yes.”

“You do not sound certain.”

“I have told you the whole truth, my lord. But Jaime is very ill. He was hot with fever — or maybe it was the venom — he was in and out of consciousness all the journey back.”

“I suppose that has nothing to do with you mutilating him for life,” said the Queen. “Very well. You are free to return to your chambers. We will see you again shortly, I have no doubt.”

“Thank you,” said Tyrion. It was the only thing he’d said the entire time.

And Brienne bowed her goodbyes.

She expected she would cry as soon as it was safe to do so.

Instead she fell into a wretched, dreamless sleep -- until someone knocked quick and hard at the door.

She opened it with bleary exhaustion and was greeted by Tyrion and the Queen.

They came in without guards and without noise, and Brienne hastily lit a set of candles — all she had — and gathered a sleeping-fur around her shoulders, for modesty.

The Queen wore a dark wrapper; Tyrion had on soft-soled boots.

They sat.

She couldn’t think of anything to say.

Cersei had her lips pressed together, and that was no surprise; she was stiff-boned, arrogant and cold. But Tyrion leaned forward. “You’ve seen Jaime.”

Brienne felt herself redden. “No, my lord. I only spoke to him.”

”And?”

”He seems upset.”

Cersei made a rude noise. “I expect he hates you. He should.”

(“Just speak to me,” she’d said, through the door. “Tell me you’re alright.”

“Fuck off,” said Jaime.)

“We didn’t talk about that, your grace.”

”What _did_ you talk about? I’m sure the range of topics within your knowledge must be ... extensive.”

"Stop that," Tyrion said to his sister. "Lady Brienne, let us be forthright. We believe you."

_That_ was so unexpected, she could only stare stupidly. “I don’t understand.”

“You understand perfectly. You are dumbfounded and tongue-tied because you are surprised and tired, and because you do not trust me.” Glancing at Cersei. "Us. You don't trust us."

Brienne didn't reply.

“I know that you and I have never gotten along. I am too loquacious, you are too taciturn. I drink and whore; you ... ride around saving small children from falling down wells, or whatever it is knights do.”

That was too much, really. He made her sound like a well-trained dog. “Lord Tyrion, I certainly do not dislike you.”

“If you like me at all, it’s because Jaime likes me. And you trust his opinion on matters.” He considered this. “You _generally_ trust him. Not a bad position to take, although Jaime has many terrible qualities and one never knows when one is going to slam into them head-first. He hasn’t sweet-talked you into an affection for Cersei, has he? Nevermind. You don’t need to answer that.”

“You said you believed me.”

“I do.”

“Why? It’s an incredible ... an impossible tale.”

“Because you would not hurt him.”

Cersei spoke, through her clenched teeth. “She did _cut off his hand. _Don't forget that in your haste to assure her of your newfound affection.”

“It was fairly well above the wrist,” said Tyrion. “Odd place for a random amputation.”

Brienne couldn’t sit there and listen to him joke about this. “I know I have no proof, I know —“

“Oh, there’s proof,” said the Queen.

“-- Your grace?”

(“I told you to leave me alone.”

“Please let me speak with you.”

“Go away,” he'd said — shouted. “Go away go away --")

"Do stop prevaricating. She wouldn't hurt him because she's in love with him. It's plain as the nose on your face." She glanced at Tyrion. "So to speak."

Tyrion laughed. "Brienne isn't in love."

"Please. The only one who's unaware of it is our darling ser Brienne." She narrowed her eyes -- those eyes like colored glass, like the sea reflecting light unto the walls of a hidden cave. Jaime's eyes, quick and knowing. "Although you haven't fucked him, have you? No. Of course not. The maid of Tarth is far too righteous for that sort of thing. But _honor_ doesn't bring out a hot blush on a maiden's face."

"Jaime is honorable," said the maid. Her lips felt numb.

"Oh, yes. Jaime and his ethics. He especially likes to find his moral center when it's inconvenient to other people. You're a right pair of idiots."

Tyrion was watching Brienne. "I apologize for my sweet sister. She speaks out of turn when she's worried."

"Hah," said Cersei.

Brienne ignored this as far as she was able; this wasn't about her, they weren't here for her, they were here because of Jaime. "Have there been any ravens returned, your grace?"

"Whyever would you think that any were ever sent out?"

"Lord Tywin -- he said -- he said they needed to search for help --"

"Think, girl. I know it comes unnaturally to you. Why would my father send out notices that his son has been attacked? Jame is his heir and favorite child. -- Don't look at Tyrion with that shock in your face like I let out a secret; he's perfectly aware of our father's opinion on the topic. If word were to get out that Jaime has been attacked, that he is dying, what would that do for our family legacy? No," still watching Brienne. "You know he's dying, or will be killed outright. Even our cells can't hold a mad vampire."

Dying. Jaime was dying.

No. She wouldn't believe that. "Why wouldn't he even look for a cure? There might be something ... we don't know."

Something dark crossed Cersei's face, marring that calm, jaded perfection. "Because if Jaime lives, and he is reasonably biddable, then Father will have a marvelous weapon. Eternally loyal, impossibly strong, making more of the same at will ... what more could anyone ask?"

"A tractable Jaime," said Tyrion. "That really would be a miracle."

"I'm certain Father is praying hourly to the Warrior for just such an end."

But Brienne was sick of conversations with people who always seemed to know and understand more than her. "Why are we all here, your grace?"

The siblings spoke at the same time. "To help me," said Cersei, and

"To help Jaime," said Tyrion.

They looked at each other.

Tyrion shrugged. "You explain. Far be it from me to intrude on your diplomatic skills."

"I know how you think of me, ser Brienne; you think that I'm a vengeful, murderous bitch. Your face doesn't mask your thoughts at all. You really should work on that, if you're ever planning a career at court."

"Your grace, I never --"

"It doesn't matter at all to me what you think. And in this case, you're correct -- largely correct. I am all those things, but not solely those things ... I love my brother. Does that make you cringe? Poor little Brienne. One would think you'd have more sympathy for me and my poor forlorn heart. I would burn down the entire city if it meant Jaime were safe. I certainly won't hesitate to sacrifice one tall, unattractive virgin. Do you understand me? I cannot send out ravens -- Father would know -- but I can send you."

She smiled. "And who would suspect you of perfidy? You see, ser Brienne, I've finally found a use for your excessive honor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i don’t know why Tyrion is on the Small Council. i have some  
ideas, but ... who can really claim to understand government?!
> 
> -amputation is not in fact a medically-aproved treatment for snake bites. its effectiveness on vampire bites remains to be seen.


	3. Chapter 3

The horse greeted Brienne, and she wished it a good morning in return. They had a long journey ahead of them; it was best to be on friendly terms.

They went along amicably enough, without much more conversation.

Midday they rested, and at evening; she fed them both and slept, restlessly dreaming, waking in jolting fear and thinking every time she woke that Jaime was near, he was hurt, he was in danger, he was in pain ...

Ostensibly she was now a hedge-knight, removed from the honor of following a House, traveling wherever luck would take her. In reality, she rode Jaime's (second-best) horse and carried his sword as well as her own.

"You keep it," he'd said. "It's no use to me anymore."

"Don't talk like that," she had said back to him, sharp as she seldom was with Jaime.

He was sitting on the foot of his bed, cross-legged, looking clean and irritable -- much the same as he always had. But under his eyes were deep purple moons, and he kept the maimed arm tucked against his waist, like it was fragile. Like anyone could hurt it worse.

He said "It's no good," meaning the sword. "I'm no better than a damned squire with my left hand. It never was any good. Whatever I had was in the right."

"You can learn again."

He turned his face to look out the window; he was a long time in answering. "Probably for the best that I don't improve. Against a one-handed vampire, maybe people would stand a chance. Maybe. Give me a sword and I'll be lethal."

"Don't talk like that. We'll find how to help you. There's always a way to make things better --"

"You and your damned optimism. Talk to me about something else."

She wasn't optimistic, not really. She didn't expect to find anything very useful in the books and papers that the maesters had; she could go all the way across Westeros and not meet anyone who'd ever met a vampire (and lived to talk about it), much less find a way to save one. But what did pessimism help? "Lord Tyrion thinks I should start at Harrenhal."

"He can't actually expect the Boltons to be helpful. Although they do share a certain love for seeing men scream in pain. Maybe they'll give you a cure just to save themselves the competition."

"He said that Roose Bolton can be reasoned with."

"I don't care what my brother said. He's as stubborn as you are. Is this the change of topic that I requested, Brienne?"

So she told him about the little squires and pages she was teaching, since the swordsmaster had fled the city (Tyrion said his escape was slowed by a heavy bag of gold, to help him remember where his loyalties lay).

None of the children seemed to have significant talent, -- "but plenty of good, faithful knights are made from squires like that."

"Huh," said Jaime, who had been talented.

She asked how he was.

"Cold. Cold, all the time. And I don't want a fire."

She desperately wanted to touch him. Brush the hair out of his eyes; lay her fingers across the heartbeat throbbing in his throat. Take his hand and press it. But they never did that. Seven years of friendship and she hadn't learned the texture of his skin until they were in the forest and he was dying in her arms ... "You don't seem to have slept much, recently."

"I sleep plenty. I don't rest. And I'm thirsty, Brienne. Always thirsty."

"I can send for wine -- water -- whatever you like."

"You know that isn't what I want."

They stared at each other.

"I wish you didn't come here," he said. "It isn't safe. I don't know what will happen -- what I'll do."

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" She'd fought the entire Small Council for a week, arguing that she should be allowed to see him, saying that he was safe. He won't hurt me. And still they didn't let her see him until Jaime asked for her. Where is Brienne? She's too damn far away.

The only way she would leave now is if he told her to go. "Do you want me to go?"

"No."

"Then I'm staying."

"Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," she said. "Jaime. I don't have to go. We can send someone else. I won't forgive myself if I leave you here, and -- something happens." She wouldn't forgive herself, either, if the someone else they sent came back empty-handed.

"I wish I were going with you."

"So do I."

He looked tired, so tired. "Make sure you come back."

In the morning, nothing had changed except the color and slant of the light. The horse was still there, and the stream; even the leaves and blades of grass looked the same.

They had a quick breakfast and rejoined the road. It was a good way more to Harrenhal.

  
Bolton was all impression and no fact. He seemed thin and was not; he seemed polite and was not. He could cut her throat as easily as shaking her hand. On the whole, she thought the vampire was easier to deal with.

He said: "Why should I help you?"

"Lord Tywin has promised aide to you, if you are able to provide assistance in this matter."

Bolton smiled. "He sends a woman to open his diplomatic relations?"

Brienne did not smile. She thought she saw what Tyrion had meant, that Bolton could be reasoned with, and she wished again that Jaime were there. She was going to fail him in this, she wasn't meant for sly smiles and clever arguments -- she was made for fighting, honesty, courage in the open air ...

She was thinking with a sick twist in her gut that she'd failed Jaime in that, too, when Bolton said "As a matter of fact, it happens that I have already sent my maester to look over our library. In anticipation of your arrival."

"And?"

"I would be interested in learning what assistance the lord of Casterly Rock thinks he can offer me."

Brienne spent a moment considering the diplomatic consequences of beating him to death with a chair. "He promised aide, my lord. He did not specify the type."

"I heard also that someone had removed ser Jaime's hand, in an attempt to stop the progression of the ... disease. Is that accurate?"

"Yes."

"Since you are here," said Bolton, "I assume it did not have the desired effect."

She didn't reply.

Rumor traveled faster than Brienne did, and she didn't mind it terribly; it meant people would be prepared for her arrival, and that meant they might have information.

That was the important thing, she told herself. Not all the calm cruelty of Bolton, not the way lord Tywin only let her go because he had already written off his son. Not the way the queen watched her with narrow green eyes. The information was the important thing.

She came to an inn at the end of the fifth day, and gratefully overpaid for a room. It did no good to try and hide her identity, even if she'd wanted to do it, her face and height made the statement of who she was before she opened her mouth.

"Lady Brienne," said the innkeep -- a pretty girl with brown eyes named Pia. "There's room for your horse, and oats, too, if you've coin."

So she put down another silver for that, too. The coin was Tyrion's, the face on it was a dead king, and the horse could eat hay and grass another night but why not give him oats? What did it matter, what did anything matter? She checked the lock on the door and checked her dagger and fell into a thick, dumb sleep.

\-- and woke sometime in the dark to the sound of a woman screaming.

She had pulled on breeches and jammed her feet into boots before she was even conscious; she tugged a jerkin over her head and took a sword and went flying down the steps, hoping there was enough light to see.

"Stop," she yelled. "Stop, stop -- let her go --"

The sound of her voice startled the fighters. One let go of the girl, the other struck him down and made a quick motion, and the girl passed by Brienne, flying through the mud in a white shift and bare feet, ghostlike in the darkness.

Brienne did not move. "Did you hurt that girl?"

"Not me," said the standing man, cleaning off a sword. "That one," jerking his chin to the body, "found her inside and took her out here. Called her a whore."

"She's no whore. There are no whores here."

"You know them well, do you?"

"I know the innkeep." Jaime did, anyway.

"Whichever way of it, the girl made a bit of noise."

Brienne shifted her weight, not taking her hand off her sword. Jaime's sword. "You thought you'd step in?"

Her eyes were adjusting; she could see the man's face, see that he was holding back, sizing her up too. "I like a woman who likes to make noise. But there's a difference between screaming and screaming. This one," nodding at the inn, "either wasn't a whore, or didn't want to be. I don't much like that."

"And you felt honor-bound to step in."

"Oh," he said, "I figured you could pay."

Wind picked up, brushing her hair over her face. "Why would I pay for it?"

"Let's go in and talk about this awhile," said Bronn.

  
She bought him a bowl of soup and an ale, refusing anything for herself, wishing she had gotten more sleep. "How -- why would you think I have money? Why would you think I'd care?"

"You're Brienne. You're with the Lannisters." Mopping up the bread and stuffing it in his mouth like he hadn't eaten anything in a week, which seemed very unlikely.

"I'm not bound to them."

"Doesn't matter. I know Tyrion. He's bound to have given you something for this little quest. And if he didn't, he'll pay me himself."

"You know lord Tyrion?"

"Saved his life once."

She stared.

This Bronn was incredibly nondescript -- well, wasn't that a good trait in a sell-sword? But he was as rangy and loose-limbed as some of the green pages she tried to teach; if she hadn't seen him run a man through, she wouldn't really expect him to be able to do it. "If you think lord Tyrion will pay you for a woman's virtue, I don't think you know him very well."

"He likes a willing whore, I know that much. More to the point, he likes his brother. And you," filling his mouth again, "you are here for ser Jaime. So we'll take a little journey together and find something that might help him."

"I don't need anyone to go with me."

Bronn drank the last of his ale. "Safety in numbers, yeah?"

Something about him reminded her of Jaime. She said: "I'm going back to sleep. I'll be off at dawn if you're coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the innkeep is pretty Pia, who was once sent to Jaime’s bed for a bit of whoring (and was turned away, because Jaime is ridiculously moral in his way).  
Pia here has all her teeth — and an inn — because this is my au and i do what i like.
> 
> There will be actual Jaime Content in the next chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author’s note:
> 
> guess who improperly backed up before she wiped her phone!!  
👍🏼 this girl 👍🏼
> 
> so we’ll pretend there was a full chapter here instead of, um. wow.

Traveling with Bronn really was almost like being with Jaime again. They were both talkative when nothing needed to be said, better fighters than they looked, and both of them assumed she was as dishonorable as they.

And just like Jaime, he saw her too clearly.

"You doing this for money?" Bronn said.

"No."

"Fame."

"No. Why would you think that?"

"The only other option is that you're in love."

Brienne's horse snorted -- she'd gripped the reins too tight -- and that was punctuation enough. She said again "Why would you said so?"

He was looking down the road. "Not much else motivates a man."

"I'm no man."

"The word includes women too."

"No," said Brienne. "It doesn't. Why do you keep doing that? What do you see?"

"Nothing."

"Then why look at it?"

"D'you trust a mile of empty road? No people, no birds, no deer. Haven't even seen a squirrel. What's cleared them out, lady Brienne?"

"It's _ser_," she said, shortly. "And you know why they're hiding as well as I do. Come on. It doesn't matter."

  
"You don't seem much afraid," he remarked, at midday.

Brienne was washing her face in a stream, kneeling by the bank; the water was ice-cold, running quick and muttering to itself. Her feet had gone asleep in the saddle and now they ached. _Corns_, she remembered Jaime complaining. _Never had corns before_.

Gods, she missed that bloody idiot. "What's there to be afraid of?"

"Monsters," said Bronn. "Men."

She looked sharply at him then, the water running down into her tunic, but he was calm, yawning, looking bored. "I'm not afraid of either."

"You trust this Jaime?"

"Of course I do."

"You fucking him?"

"No!"

"But you want to."

Brienne stood up at that -- saw that Bronn saw her anger, saw that he was close enough to his sword to reach it, saw he was sitting like that because it was comfortable and because it let him get up early -- and she made herself relax. "He's my friend."

"People fuck their friends."

"Is this the only sort of conversation you're capable of?"

"Nice day all round," said Bronn. "Used to go nutting on days like this, when I was a lad." He gave her a certain kind of a look, and Brienne knew what his next line would be even as he said it: "Nowadays I go for a different kind of nutting." Pause. "Did you ever do that?"

"I've never been a lad," she said, dry. "Is there an inn ahead?"

"High Heart. Or Stone Hedge."

"I'd like to keep to the river road, if there's no reason to leave it." Smaller roads meant smaller folk, and whatever knowledge they had would be folklore.

The voice in her head said that lords had no better tales than folklore, that books were full of nonsense, that Jaime was dead or dying or as good as dead. _You're a fool._

"Are you planning to go clear to the Crags?" inquired Bronn. "Not that I mind, necessarily. Only there's certain people I'd like to avoid in that area."

A sell-sword with a loud mouth was not likely to make friends wherever he went. "The Westerlands, and the Reach. I'll go to Lys if I have to."

"Nutting all the way," said Bronn: and he whistled a song about a bear with fondness for maidenly honey.

Brienne rode in silence.

The old squires and young knights had all gone to collect tree-nuts, one day, Jaime and she among them. They'd known each other for years.

Brienne was the only woman, as she usually was, and usually there was nothing strange about that -- but something was different that day. She caught other boys looking at her and whispering more than once, then acting like nothing had happened, and twice someone asked her to go with him alone further into the woods, where the leaves hadn't been picked clean of the shining brown rounds.

Nothing seemed wrong about any of this (the squires were often alone together, weren't they?) -- nothing was out of place at all -- except the tiny hairs on her bare hands wouldn't lay down, and though the day was grown warm she felt strangely shy about unlacing the top part of her tunic. _No,_ she said again and again. _No, I'm staying here._

_Don't you trust me?_ one of them had whined.

Brienne was barely seventeen -- she hadn't many friends -- and she was loathe to make enemies among these boys who someday might be fighting alongside her. So she only looked at Ron Connington blankly and didn't reply.

He put a hand on her arm. _Come with me._

_No._

He closed his fingers around her wrist. _Come on, I said. Be quiet, now, and don't make a fuss._

Brienne looked around -- saw the faces of the boys who knew what was happening and wouldn't help her -- and took a deep breath. _Alright. Let go my arm._

He let go and she hit him, striking again so hard and fast he fell into the leaves, and then she was kicking him and screaming into his face and someone was pulling her off, letting her go, pulling her off again --

she punched and he dodged, she punched and it landed -- and she saw who it was, and felt sick. _Not Jaime_. Bad enough for the others to betray her, bad enough for years of fighting and practice and work and help to mean nothing against the fact she had a cunt, but Jaime -- how could she fight against him? Her hand dropped.

He caught it. "We're going back."

"Not -- not into the woods -- not with you -- "

"No. No. Not the woods. We're going back to Kings Landing."

Brienne nodded at him, dumb. She felt terribly near tears.

They took the horse, and Jaime was pillion.

"What about the wagon?" It was a heavy farm-cart, half-full of baskets and blankets and the beautiful red-brown nuts.

"Let them drag the wagon back themselves," said Jaime, curt and hot into her ear.

She turned to see him and thought he'd never looked more a Lannister than he did then: all rage and passion, hair gold and eyes green. And his nose bloody, where she'd hit him. "Jaime. They wanted -- they were going to --"

"I know," he said. "I overheard them. That's why I -- You don't need to talk about it."

"I trusted them." Her breath caught. She had just a moment to think _I won't cry, I won't_ and then she _was_ sobbing, choking, squinting to keep her gaze clear. _I mustn't cry like this in front of him._ And the other part of her said _If you weep, you'll fall off the horse and break your arm._

Jaime only said again: "I know." And he pressed against her back, steadying her, both of them moving easy with the gait of the horse, heading home.

  
She was remembering how he'd come back the next day with a black eye and bleeding knuckles, and the argument they'd had about chivalry and protection, with him yelling _Should I knock you down, Brienne? Would that make you feel better?_ and her saying he couldn't do it if he tried, and the way he'd come in close to her -- they were nearly the same height then -- and said, his tone thick and dark: _I'm strong enough_

and how she'd felt the blush crawl warm and prickly all up her chest and into her face, because he wasn't moving away or laughing or making a joke of it like he always did, and they weren't talking about fighting anymore if they had ever been talking about that -- he meant_ I could hold you down and take you if I wanted to do it._

"You wouldn't do that. You're my friend," she'd said: no longer certain this was exactly true.

"If that's what you want," Jaime had said, soft.

A bird waited for them at the next inn.

_Ser — Please return. Our mutual friend was found feasting on a woman in a way I have never experienced; now he requests to speak with you._

It was unsigned.

Brienne thought she recognized Tyrion, despite the lack of signature.

She turned around and went to saddle her horse.


End file.
